CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | RORY
“Alright, boys,” Josh Hudson announced, rubbing his palms together as he glanced at the eleven other Firehouse 56 crew members arranged around the poker table. “It’s time for the moment of truth…”
“By ‘moment of truth,’ I assume you’re referring to the victory speech I’m going to give after I clean you suckers out,” Troy Hart wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, flaunting the hand of cards pinched between his thumb and index finger.
It was Monday night and, after weeks of successfully evading invitations to join in the weekly Firehouse 56 poker game, I had finally found myself planted around the table with the rest of the crew.
Apparently playing poker every Monday night in the vehicle bay was a longstanding tradition for the crew at Firehouse 56. I had assumed right off the bat that I would hate it -- mostly because I assumed right off the bat that I would hate my colleagues. But I had been wrong on both counts; after a few rounds of beer and a few hands of poker, I found myself warming up to the idea of the tradition… and to the other members of the crew.
Well, most of them, anyways...
“Jesus, Troy,” Logan Ford rolled his eyes. “If you get any cockier, I’m gonna start thinking that you’re compensating for something…”
“Oh, he’s definitely compensating!” Bryce McKinley chimed in. “Underneath his cocky exterior and model good looks, our friend Troy here is just a hollow shell of a man with a teeny, tiny, withered up little--”
“Cock,” Logan finished for him.
“Actually, I was going to say heart,” Bryce said. Then he shrugged his shoulders, “But heart, cock… they’re basically the same thing.”
“Hell no, they aren’t basically the same thing!” Walker Wright whooped, shaking his head. “I don’t agree with that for one second!”
“Why not?”
“Well for a start, they serve two completely different functions!” Walker said. “A man fucks with his cock, but he loves with his heart.”
“So now you’re trying to tell us there’s a difference between fucking and loving, too?!” Logan demanded, raising his eyebrows skeptically.
“Does it matter?” Bryce shrugged. “When it comes to Troy Hart, it’s pretty safe to assume that both would be equally underwhelming.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” Troy grinned, unscathed by the banter. “My cock is a national treasure. I bet if you Googled it, you’d find all 5-star reviews!”
“Great,” Josh rolled his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll all have a really fun time Googling ‘Troy Hart’s cock’ later. But in the meantime, we have a game to play…”
“Right,” Troy said, remembering the cards in his hand. “Maybe if you all can stop thinking about my cock for five seconds, you can suck on this!” He flung his hand down on the table, face-up.
“That’s what you were bragging about?” Duke Williams glanced up over the top of his own hand of cards. “A straight?!”
“You think you can beat that?”
“I’m pretty sure everyone at this table can beat that,” Duke scoffed, shaking his head. Then he dropped his own hand on the table with a dramatic, “Bam!”
“Oh shit!” Josh heckled. “Someone call the Olsen twins, because we’ve got ourselves a Full House!”
“What’s that you were saying about a victory speech, Troy?”
“And THIS is exactly why I hate playing with you motherfuckers!” Troy grunted, kicking back from the table and stomping away.
“What’s his problem?” Brady Hudson frowned, watching Troy storm off.
“Sore loser,” Duke shrugged. Then he turned to the rest of the table, “Is anyone gonna beat my full house, or what?”
“Not me,” Bryce sighed, slamming his hand down the table.
“Count me out.”
One by one, the guys around the table dropped their hands in defeat, until I was the only one left with a hand of cards.
“Alright McAlister, let’s see what you’re hiding over there,” Josh asked me. “You got something that can bring Mr. March to his knees?”
“Pfft, yeah right!” Duke chuckled, taking a sip of beer. “Daddy Daycare probably thinks we’re playing Go Fish.”
“Dude, you got a problem with Go Fish?” Bryce raised his eyebrows defensively.
“Hey man, to each their own,” Duke shrugged, leaning back in his chair and resting his heels on the edge of the table. “If that’s what you want to play, maybe we can set up a kids table for you.”
“Very funny,” Bryce scowled.
I kept my face blank behind my hand of cards as I eased back into my seat behind the table.
“Go Fish,” I said, stroking my chin through my beard. “Hey Bryce, can you remind me again how that game goes?”
Bryce’s eyes narrowed, then a grin turned up at the corner of his mouth. He seemed to be picking up what I was putting down.
“It’s really simple,” he said. “You’re just trying to get four of a kind.”
“Hmm,” I nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds a little bit like poker, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does,” Bryce nodded, glancing towards Duke.
“Tell me something,” I said, stroking my chin again. “If we were playing Go Fish… what would you call this?”
I tossed my cards on the table and they landed, splayed out, in the perfect fan.
“Shiiit,” Josh whistled, standing up to admire my hand. “I’m not sure what you call that in Go Fish, but in poker we call that a royal motherfucking flush!”
The guys at the table immediately started hooting and hollering, all crowding around my side of the table to jostle my shoulders or congratulate me with a slap on the back.
Even Duke Williams seemed mildly impressed,
“Well played, bro,” he sniffed, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t suspect that poker face for a second.”
On cue, a couple of the guys launched into chanting the chorus of Lady Gaga’s ‘Poker Face.’ I just rolled my eyes and grinned.
“Who’s down for another round?” Josh asked, scooping up all the cards and shuffling them back into a deck.
“Actually, I should probably head home,” Bryce said, drowning the remainder of his beer. “It must be getting late--”
“Booo!” one of the guys hissed, cupping his hands around his mouth. Another voice chimed in, “Come on Dad, stay out past curfew tonight!”
Bryce just chuckled.
“Hey, I’m more than happy to stick around if you boys wanna pitch in to pay for my babysitter,” he shrugged.
“Quit being cheap, McKinley,” Walker rolled his eyes and gave Bryce’s shoulder a shake. “What’s she charging you, anyways? Five bucks an hour?”
Josh and Brady exchanged a glance, then both shook their heads and chuckled.
“What?” Walker asked, sounding perplexed.
“Five bucks?” Josh raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Forgive me, it’s been a few years since I’ve picked up a Babysitters Club book,” Walker smirked sarcastically. “What’s the going rate these days? Ten bucks?”
“Try twenty,” Josh said.
“Jesus Christ,” Walker whistled. “Twenty bucks an hour?! For that price, you better come home to find your kid speaking mandarin and doing long division.”
“That’ll cost you extra,” I grinned, shaking my head. “My babysitter back in Boston used to charge me an extra ten bucks for homework help.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Walker shook his head. “What little swindlers!”
“Speaking of swindlers,” Bryce said as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “My sitter charges time-and-a-half if I keep her past 9 p.m. on a school night. Which means--” he paused to glance at his wrist, then he grimaced “--that it’s time for me to get the hell out of here.”
We said our goodbyes as Bryce headed towards the rear exit at the back of the vehicle bay, then Josh turned to me,
“What about you, McAlister?” he asked. “You wanna bow out before your sitter runs up the meter on you?”
I considered it for a second. When I had agreed to tag along for poker night, I had promised myself that I’d only stick around for a couple of rounds before I bailed and went home. But now, I had to admit that I was actually enjoying myself.
“I’ll stick around for one more round,” I decided.
“‘Atta boy!” Josh said, clapping his hand on my shoulder proudly. “I’ll deal you in!”
“I’m gonna grab another beer, first,” I said, eyeing my empty bottle on the table. “Anyone else ready for another round?”
I didn’t have any takers, but as I made my way towards the spiral staircase leading up towards the kitchen, Duke cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted after me, “Hey, if you hear any dramatic sobbing while you’re up there, just ignore it… it’s probably just Troy feeling sorry for himself.”
I smirked and rolled my eyes, then I climbed up the stairs to the upper level of the firehouse. The kitchen was empty. I flicked on the lights and chucked my beer bottle into the recycling bin, then I cracked open the fridge to peruse the assortment of brews.
I was debating between a local IPA and a lager when I heard footsteps. When I glanced over the fridge door and saw Logan Ford stride into the room, I felt my blood thicken.
His hands were wedged in the front pockets of his jeans and he had a blank expression on his face. He walked towards me, but stopped a few paces short.
It wasn’t easy working in close proximity to the guy who used to make my life a living hell back in high school. I’d been doing my best to avoid Logan Ford, and the pursuit seemed to be mutual.
Until now.
Stay cool, I told myself. Be the bigger man.
“What are you drinking?” I asked, nodding towards the open fridge.
Logan looked confused, then he blinked at the selection of beers and muttered,
“Umm… just a Miller Lite.”
I reached for a white can and resisted the urge to shake it before I tossed it towards him. He caught it with one hand, but didn’t make any motion to pop open the can or walk back towards the stairs leading down to the vehicle bay.
What do you want? I was tempted to ask, but I kept my mouth shut as I turned back to the fridge and grabbed myself a Voodoo Ranger IPA.
“Hey, listen…” Logan said behind me. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s been eating at me ever since I saw you in the locker room that day…”
“Oh really?” I kept my back to him as I popped the metal cap off of my beer and took a swig. I savored the mouthful of bitter hoppiness, then I swallowed and slowly turned around.
Logan Ford had been the antagonist in nearly every bad memory I had from high school. Maybe his words didn’t leave visible scars on me, but they stayed burned and branded in my brain, even years after the fact.
I could have just about stomached his constant mocking and insults, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Logan Ford was the literal embodiment of everything I wasn’t; everything I couldn’t be.
He lived in the nice part of town, where the streets were so clean you could eat a sandwich off of ‘em. His dad was a town hero -- a firefighter at Firehouse 56 -- and his mom was a modern-day June Cleaver. They were the perfect, all-American family, and Logan was the perfect, all-American son.
He was a star football player in college. He had good hair and a wardrobe that looked like it came straight off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. He drove around in a shiny red convertible that he had gotten for his sixteenth birthday, and he threw wild house parties when his parents went out of town.
We were cut from different loaves; Logan Ford was like a slice of pristine, bleached-white Wonder Bread… and I was like the unwanted end piece from a stale, day-old loaf of food bank bread.
I always knew the score. I was well aware of the fact that I rode the bus to school and wore clothes from Salvation Army and smelled like my stepfather’s cigarettes.
Anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Logan Ford was better than me. It was fucking obvious. But that didn’t stop Logan from making it his personal mission to remind me of my inferiority, day after day after day…
Even now, nearly a decade later, part of me still expected Logan Ford to make a snide remark or cruel insult when I turned to face him in the firehouse kitchen.
I definitely wasn’t prepared for what he had to say.
“I owe you an apology, Rory,” he said.
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I folded my arms across my chest without saying anything, waiting for him to continue.
“I was a total ass to you in high school,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Actually, I was a total ass to everyone… but I was especially an ass to you.”
“I know it’s not an excuse,” he said, looking up at me, “But I felt like my world was falling apart. Everyone thought I had this perfect life… but the truth was, it was an act. My dad was cheating on my mom. My mom dealt with it by popping pills until she turned herself into a zombie. I felt all of this pressure on my shoulders to hold it all together. I had to be perfect; it wasn’t a choice.”
Logan leaned back on the countertop and flicked his eyes up towards me. His face was so full of humility and shame that I barely recognized him.
“It must sound like such a cliché, the popular jock, looking for an easy target,” he shook his head. “But it wasn’t like that. Believe it or not, Rory… I was actually jealous of you.”
“Fuck off,” I snorted, rolling my eyes.
“That’s the God-honest truth,” Logan held up his palms. “At fifteen years old, my entire life was already planned out for me, what position I had to play in football, who I could be friends with, what scholarships I needed to win, what scouts I had to impress, what university I had to get into…”
“Sounds really tough,” I scoffed bitterly.
“It fucking sucked,” Logan said. “But you… you had total freedom. Nobody was telling you what clothes to wear, or who to talk to, or what you had to be when you grew up. Rory, you could have been anything you wanted to be. Anything.”
“I couldn’t be you,” I corrected him. “I had ‘freedom’ because my parents didn’t give a shit about me. I would have given that up in a heartbeat for your life.”
“I guess the grass is always greener on the other side, right?”
Can your grass look greener, if you don’t actually have any grass in the first place?
My shoulders were tense and my chest was full of knots. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hate Logan. But when I glanced across the kitchen, I didn’t see the guy that used to torment me back in high school; I saw a grown man weighed down by regret and remorse.
Were we really all that different, Logan and I?
My mind flashed back to that night at the construction site, when I had lit a fire and nearly burned a house to the ground. Hadn’t I been a stupid teenager, acting out of hurt and frustration? Hadn’t I come to feel regret and remorse for my mistakes, too?
“I know that an apology won’t make it better,” Logan said, “But I am sorry, and I--”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I repeated. “All is forgiven. That was a long time ago… let’s leave the past in the past and start fresh.”
“Wait… really?” Logan blinked at me in disbelief.
“Really,” I said, and I meant it.
A grudge is a heavy thing to hold onto, and I had been holding onto my grudge against Logan Ford for years. Not anymore. I couldn’t let the weight of my past hold me back anymore.
It was time to let go.